


Chance Meetings in Dark Alleys

by aces



Category: Amelia Peabody - Peters, Secret Adventures of Jules Verne
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-06
Updated: 2010-01-06
Packaged: 2017-10-05 22:10:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/46524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aces/pseuds/aces
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neither Jules Verne nor Ramses Emerson ever learned not to walk down those dark alleys.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chance Meetings in Dark Alleys

**Author's Note:**

> I had to fudge a bit with dating for this story, but it was too good to resist.  Takes place in that gap where Ramses went off by himself to get away from Nefret, and obviously sometime after when SAJV took place. 

           

            _Jules Verne_, the man thought to himself with a wry shake of his head, _you _are_ a romantic_.

            The author was wandering the streets of Paris, searching out his old haunts from when he had lived there as a young man.  He hadn't been back to the city in years, alternating between traveling and his home in the country instead, but friends were throwing him a party in Paris, and he couldn't resist going back and seeing how the city had changed.

            It was one thing to explore during the day with friends.  Quite another to walk about at night by himself, especially as a man nearing his sixtieth birthday.  Jules shook his head again, smiling.  No, he never learned.  But he doubted anything untoward would happen to him tonight. 

            He'd gone past cafés and bistros where he'd wiled away many hours, and had even found his old garret window to stare up at.  Hmm.  Yes, nostalgia was one thing, but it wouldn't do to romanticize _too_ much--he was definitely grateful to be out of that attic.  Yet he did miss those times, the excitement and wild adventure and, perhaps, even the danger.  Walking through these streets was only reminding him that he was no longer as young as he used to be.

            And now he was slowly making his way back to more respectable quarters of the city, where his friends' home was located.  The street was dark, few streetlights nearby, and he seemed to be the only person out walking through the cool air. 

            "Seemed" being the operative word.  Jules thought he could hear footsteps approaching, tapping on the cobblestones frantically.  He turned around, searching helplessly through the dark night.  By the time the footsteps were almost upon him, and he could make out the figure sprinting toward him, it was too late.  The other person crashed into him, and they toppled to the ground.

            They both grunted, Jules's body complaining vociferously, and almost before the other figure had stopped falling he was on his feet again, dragging Jules up unceremoniously with him.  "What the devil is going on--" Jules started bad-temperedly asking when he felt a steel grip clamping down on his mouth and locking the words in his throat.  He looked up--the other person was a good four or five inches taller than him--and vaguely made out black eyes staring down at him coldly, warningly.  Jules's heart fluttered.  _You wanted adventure_, he told himself bleakly.  The other man pulled him down the street until they reached an intersecting alleyway, down which they turned.  He then pushed Jules into a doorway next to him and held him back as far as he could with one strong arm, the other still over Jules's mouth.

            The man was dressed in dirty rags, layers of shirts and coats and trousers, all covered in mud and what smelled like alcohol and other noxious substances.  A cap was falling off silver-grey, straggly hair, and the man's face and body seemed to be even dirtier and worse smelling than his clothes.  He had all the appearance of an old, weak, drunken beggar, and yet the arms holding Jules and the black eyes he'd glimpsed for only a moment bespoke of someone much younger and much more dangerous.

            Jules calmed himself, telling himself that if this stranger had wanted him dead, he could have done the deed already quite easily.  The man was obviously running from somebody; Jules didn't know from whom, but he had the experience that usually the one running away has very good reasons.  He found his curiosity taking over where his fear had been, and he smiled to himself internally.  Yes, he _had_ been missing a bit of adventure in his life--everyone treated him with deference and respect, as a gifted writer and an old man.  And he'd _never_ felt like an old man.

            _I'm in an alley again_ he thought to himself and actually felt like laughing.  He managed to contain his sudden enthusiasm and instead tapped the stranger's arm holding him back against the doorway in the alley.  The man, who had been turned awkwardly (yet somehow making the stance appear graceful) to stare at the road with his entire body tensed, swung around to stare now at Jules with that same furious intensity.

            Jules met the gaze head on and gestured to the man's hand over his mouth.  The stranger nodded and slowly let go of Jules.  Jules stayed absolutely still.  A flash of surprise would have gone unnoticed in the man's eyes if Jules hadn't been paying him such close attention, and then the man nodded and turned back to the road, waiting with a patience and complete lack of movement that amazed Jules.  The attitude the stranger had adopted reminded him strongly of Phileas Fogg--he'd seen Phileas move with the same catlike grace and speed this man had exhibited (another oddity when combined with his disheveled appearance), had seen Fogg wait with the same uncanny serenity and fortitude.

            What seemed like hours later but was probably only a few minutes, the stranger stiffened almost imperceptibly--again, the movement would have been undetected if not for Jules's own straining senses.  A moment later, Jules heard what the other man already had--more running footsteps.  Both men held their breath and didn't move.

            A couple people--men, dressed not much better than the stranger next to Jules--slowed to a halt near the alley and looked around, breathing hard.  They spoke to each other rapidly; Jules strained his ears, but either they spoke too softly or it was some argot or dialect he didn't recognize, because he couldn't understand anything they were saying.  The man next to him appeared to know what was going on, however, judging by the thoughtful expression on his face that Jules could just make out in the darkness.  The other men finally ran on down the street.

            Jules released a breath at last, relaxing muscles he hadn't even realized he'd tensed.  Many of those muscles started protesting immediately, and he winced ruefully.  _You're too old for this,_ he lectured himself mock-sternly and looked up again at his bizarre companion.  His fierce curiosity was overwhelming, but first things first, a lesson he'd learned a long time ago in Fogg's company.

            "Are we safe now?" he asked in a voice barely above a breath.

            The other man glanced down at him, once again seemingly surprised by the little old man he'd accidentally involved in his predicament, and nodded.  "Quite safe now, Monsieur," the stranger said in perfectly accented, idiomatic French.  Somehow Jules knew it wasn't the man's native language.  "Thank you for being so patient.  I must apologize for my rough handling, but I didn't want you to be caught by those other men."

            "I'm all right," Jules assured him with a smile, "though I'm not sure my back will ever forgive you.  Will you be all right for the rest of the night?  Is there anywhere for you to go--do you need money?"          

            He thought he saw a flash of teeth, as if the other man were smiling.  "You care what happens to a drunken wretch like me, Monsieur?"

            Jules held his gaze.  "You are no drunk, Monsieur," he answered evenly, "and I have no idea if you're wretched or not.  Do you need help?"

            The man paused, considering Jules's words, then shook his head, his tone subtly changing to become more serious.  "No, I'll be all right.  You, sir, on the other hand, really should not be wandering about alone at night in this part of Paris, if I may say so.  It isn't very safe."

            Jules grinned, unable to stop himself.  "My friends have told me so many times before," he answered.  "I'll manage."

            "In that case," the stranger held out his hand, "good-bye.  Again, I must thank you for being so cooperative, and apologize for my behavior."

            Jules shook the man's hand.  It was a firm, strong grip, if rather dirty.  There were wrinkles, probably even age spots if the writer could get a close enough look in better light.  The man was thorough, Jules had already realized that.  "Good day, sir," he said.

            The man seemed to fade into the alleyway.  Jules didn't bother trying to follow him.  He began his walk again, a little more quickly this time, deep in thought as he mulled over the evening's surreal events.  He smiled.  It had been an intriguing night all round, he decided.  And he wondered if he would ever find out who that strange man had been.

* * *

            The next day Jules's thoughts turned away from the stranger and the men who had been following him, as he was busy being the guest of honor at his friends' party.  He greeted everyone, drank a small quantity of champagne and laughed politely, and all the while wished he could loosen his collar and get rid of his damned tie.

            By the time he was getting truly bored and wishing somebody of interest was at the party to talk to, an English Sir Something or Other wandered by and introduced a young countryman and friend of his who happened to be in Paris at the moment, Walter Peabody Emerson, better known as Ramses and the son of the famed Egyptologist.

            "How do you do, Monsieur Verne," the young Englishman said politely in perfect French, holding his hand out for Jules to shake.  "It's an honor to meet you, sir.  I've enjoyed many of your books."

            He was tall and slender, dressed in well-cut eveningwear that suited his long, thin figure.  His hair was black, inclined to waviness, and his eyes were the same deep color under thick eyebrows, his nose aquiline.  His skin was a natural deep tan.  He could have been no more than twenty-three and was probably younger.  His face was a polite, blank mask.

            "How do you do Mr Emerson," Jules smiled back, switching to English smoothly.  "Of course I've heard of your father--and your mother.  They're both well, I hope?"

            Ramses nodded.  "They'll be going back to Egypt soon," he replied courteously.  There was no hint of either unease or boredom in his voice at the thought of being stuck at this tedious reception for hours to come.  "Are you staying in Paris for a while?"

            Jules nodded.  "Perhaps we'll run into each other again," he said with a polite smile, "if you're also staying in Paris."

            "I am going to the Middle East soon," Ramses said.  He almost sounded regretful.  "But perhaps we will.  If you'll excuse me..."

            The Englishman weaved his way through the crowds of people with a catlike grace.  Jules watched him go thoughtfully and shrugged to himself in bemusement.  He hoped he'd get a chance to speak to that young man again later.

            And indeed, later he did get another chance.  Jules was standing in a fairly isolated corner of the room, in need of some time alone to think.  He heard a faint rustle and looked up to find Ramses Emerson standing before him, failing to look nervous.  Failing to look like anything in fact; Jules had never seen such a schooled, expressionless face before.  He wondered what the younger man was trying to hide behind that cool facade.

            "I must thank you again, it appears, sir," Ramses said, sitting down in the chair next to Jules's.  "Why didn't you say anything earlier?"

            Jules half-smiled.  "What could I say?  Why would anyone believe that I already met you last night, dressed as a beggar and running away from some rather unsavory types?"

            "It is a difficult situation," Ramses admitted coolly.  "I'm sorry I didn't realize who you were last night--I probably wouldn't have come today if I had.  My friend insisted, though, and I was curious to meet you."  His thin lips curved infinitesimally upward.  "I was a bit surprised when I realized I already had," he admitted dryly.

            Jules smiled back.  "So was I," he said.  "I was sure I must have been imagining things today, but you can't disguise eyes.  And you didn't bother disguising your voice last night."

            Ramses shrugged.  "I felt sure I'd never see you again.  You were just a Parisian gentleman, out for a stroll in a rather odd part of town.  What were you doing there anyway if I may ask, sir?" he added, a note of puzzlement creeping into his voice.

            "Reminiscing," Jules replied wryly.  "What were _you_ doing there?"

            "I suppose I do owe you an explanation," Ramses said ruminatively.  He paused, quickly collecting his thoughts.  "I'd overheard those two men, along with another accomplice, a few days ago in a cafe I was visiting.  They were planning something I didn't agree with and, fairly sure the gendarme either wouldn't care or wouldn't believe me, I decided to intervene myself.  Of course I had to go in disguise," he added, his lips again curling up ever so slightly.  "Unfortunately, they found me out anyway and had split up to chase me when I...ran into you."

            "And after you disappeared in the alley?" Jules asked.

            Ramses shrugged.  "I slipped away and changed back to my regular appearance.  They won't recognize me, I assure you.  They're not as observant as you, nor did they get the chance to be."  He sounded, if he didn't actually look, amused.

            "A writer's tools," Jules answered.  "I've heard about your parents, as I said.  It sounds like you're following their footsteps in more ways than one."

            The young man's expression remained particularly blank.  "I did what I thought was necessary."

            "Of course," Jules smiled and stood up.  The Englishman followed suit, waiting patiently for Jules to say more.  Jules held out his hand.  "Since we probably won't meet again--at least, not here and now--I'll say good-bye to you once again.  It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr Emerson."

            Ramses shook Jules's hand.  "And you, Monsieur Verne."

            Jules held the young man's hand an instant longer, looking up to meet his dark gaze.  "Be careful," he said, not entirely sure why.  He just kept remembering when he was that young.

            A real--and rare--smile crossed Ramses's handsome, thin face.  "That is advice my family has always had trouble heeding," he replied and bowed to Jules before melting into the crowd and disappearing completely from Jules's sight.

            Jules sat down again, needing a few more minutes alone.  He grinned to himself.  A very intriguing young man indeed.

           


End file.
